Masculinity & Moulin Rouge
by SEEKER-2000
Summary: Puck learns the hard way that you don't question Kurt's masculinity while watching Moulin Rouge. Not slash, particularly. Puck POV


Masculinity & Moulin Rouge

I think Mr. Schue thinks he's really clever. Like, like really clever. Like as if he's just the most clever teacher of all time. Seriously. I could punch him in the face right now. I don't want to watch Moulin Rouge. I don't want to be in the same room as someone watching Moulin Rouge. I don't want to wonder what the hell Moulin Rouge means in French so badly that I go and Bablefish that bitch. Oh, it means red windmill? Thanks Artie. Fucking hell. I do not want to have that sort of knowledge in my brain.

And yet here I am watching Moulin Rouge like some sort of girl on her period, and there isn't even chocolate around.

Mr. Schue…ugh. Have I mentioned that he thinks he's clever?

At first I thought it wouldn't be a big deal. Sure, he came into Glee practice with his Clever Face on in full force, but I figured he does that a lot and it wouldn't mean he was bringing my doom. Why I thought that, I have no idea. This is the teacher that thought it would be a good life lesson for us to ride around in wheelchairs for a week. But, being the always kindhearted individual that I am, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and hold off my reservations about whatever mad idea he had brought along with his Clever Face today.

Turns out, he wanted to show us a good example of a medley by showing us a clip from Moulin Rouge, and I can get that. Yeah, it's corny, but that thing where The One Guy and The Chick With The Forehead are on top of the big bedazzled elephant singing? I grasp the concept of how that is a good medley. There's a bunch of songs, and they're all squished into one song, and there's a lot of fruity dancing.

Lesson? Learned.

Mr. Schue started taking the DVD out and I thought we were going to be dandy fine. Dandy. Fine.

But then god damn Hummel and Rachel did that weird combination of hitched-gasp-small-squeak and I knew we were fucked. As Rachel rambled on about how there were so many other important things we could learn about music by watching the entire movie, all the while Kurt was practically quivering in his pink sweater (there's no fucking way that WASN'T bought in the girl's section) trying his hardest not to agree with Rachel while at the same time really, really, really wanting to agree with Rachel. He probably blinked twenty times in last 10 seconds.

Of course, MR. SCHUE, being as desperate as he is to get us excited about things, decided that hey, we've been working hard, why not take a break and just spend some time together watching a movie? Good ole quality time with the team.

Add this to the list of reasons why the French suck.

I thought that at least my boys would have my back and we could revolt this sort of abuse together. Stand together as one, against THE MAN trying to bring us down with Elton John remixes. I thought we would stand together for justice, truth, and the American way, bros before hoes and all that…But I took one look around the room and saw I had thought wrong.

See, guys are idiots. This is another concept I grasp. We let our dicks guide our minds, and when every girl in the room finally released orgasmic squeals of pent up joy at being able to lyke omg watch the best movie EVER together, all the guys decided to stay too. True, the logic was there. Excited girls watching romance movies about ultimate love involving singing and dancing equaled an easy excuse to be the sensitive guy friend that totally understands, and no, no wouldn't mind at all if you want to use his knees as a pillow while we watch?

Mr. Schue…the bastard. He was practically glowing like he'd swallowed some sort of radioactive sundae at seeing us all bonding. I could see the cogs working in his head. Look at me! I'm Mr. Schuester! I'm so damn clever! I've created a teaching moment without even really trying! BEHOLD THE POWER OF SONG!

There was no way I was going to get out of this. I was doomed to watch the whole thing. Yeah, it's a good movie, if you like snorting crack while crying into your Madonna collection…Which…hey, I'm not judging. As if it couldn't get worse, the entire time people kept speaking up with things like "OH we should SO sing this song at regionals!" and "Hey, Mr. Schue, do you think we could get can-can dancer costumes?".

That last suggestion was from Kurt of course, and I nearly kicked him in the back of the head. Of course, the resident fairy was in sheer bliss. Big gay twinkling elephant bliss. But damn it if it wasn't infectious. When the dramatic tango scene happened, everyone, including my studly self somehow, jumped up and put on their best serious faces for an impromptu dance along while Kurt and Mercedes serenaded us all over the movie score. Fun fact, Tina can actually Tango. Kinda hot. Anyways, I glanced around the room and there wasn't a single person that wasn't smiling or laughing. Mr. Schuester was even taking notes, rambling about how a tango could really be something special if we put some work into it. Like I said, he thinks he's clever.

That's when I said fuck it. Sure, this shit was slowly turning me into a woman, but I like women because they have boobs and stuff. And hey, I can't say it wasn't fun. I decided to quit mentally complaining and wishing death on Mr. Schue, Rachel, and Hummel for getting us into this crap in the first place and instead just enjoyed myself. I'll punch anyone who says I enjoyed it though.

When the number was over we all piled on the ground in front of the TV cart to watch the rest of movie. I was squished between the wheel of Artie's chair and Kurt, no room for escape. Yeah, surrounded by heartwarming love and all that shit. There was a buzz in the air, electricity passed from laugh to good natured pat on the back. We'd all had a moment, I guess. One of those moments you think about when you're forty-five and you can't pay your cell phone bill and your kid is smoking pot and your favorite belt isn't fitting in the loops of your favorite pants anymore. One of those moments you think to yourself was I ever really just a kid with a Mohawk dancing in an choir room as a two of your (you'll realize this much later) friends brought down the house in some sort of weird duet that actually worked? Was I ever that alive? That free? That…that person?

But I pushed the self reflection to the back of my head, knowing there was a time and place for everything, and just watched the rest of the movie. No one told me how it was going to end. Damn, it was actually really sad. That's cheap. I thought loved conquered all and shit like that in these types of movies. Not exactly fair, you know?

I looked around and saw everyone else seemed just as bummed as me. Some of the girls were crying, wiping their eyes with their sleeves. At first I was confused as to why they were crying, because I figured that this was the type of movie that all girls had probably seen before, and then I just realized that girls like to cry. Mike was obviously trying to hold back tears. Good man, emotion was for sissies. Finn just seemed dumbstruck. Then of course there was Kurt, his eyes filled to the brim with tears, his mouth hanging open as if the anguish that The One Guy had about The Dying Chick With The Forehead was actually Kurt's own.

Truthfully, I don' even know why, but I snorted. "Hummel. You are such a fucking girl."

Quick as lightning, his hand shot out, backhanding me right in the eye. Hard. Like, like really hard for a guy with noodle arms. That was a scary thought. All I needed was for Kurt to have a strong arm on him and end up trying out for baseball or something in the spring. Funny thing was, he was in such a weird little musical tragedy Madonna glitter love haze, Kurt didn't even glance away from the TV the entire time, not even when he hit me, tears making little puddles on his cheeks. And now it was my turn to cry. Not cry, exactly, more like…my eyes watered. Shit, he hit me with a lot of god damn force. It was unnecessary. As soon as I made a move to retaliate, Mr. Schue spoke up.

"Boys," he warned, giving a stern look.

"Boys my ass." I grumbled. There was no need to be bring plural nouns into this.

Kurt was off in his own little gay world, "It's just so sad."

Damn right it was sad. My eye stung really bad, and I had a creeping suspicion there'd be bruising. I was pimp slapped by Kurt Hummel. Remind me next time to wait until Moulin Rouge was over next time before questioning Kurt's masculinity.

Damn you, Mr. Schuester. You think you're so clever.


End file.
